The Sword and the Saint
by Pickwick12
Summary: An exploration of the ways Matt Murdock's faith and life experiences shape him into Daredevil
1. The Prayer of Saint Francis

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace;  
where there is hatred, let me sow love;  
when there is injury, pardon;  
where there is doubt, faith;  
where there is despair, hope;  
where there is darkness, light;  
and where there is sadness, joy.  
Grant that I may not so much seek  
to be consoled as to console;  
to be understood, as to understand,  
to be loved as to love;  
for it is in giving that we receive,  
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned,  
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

- _The Prayer of Saint Francis of Assisi_


	2. Lord make me an instrument of your peace

**Lord, make me an instrument of your peace**

"Father, I'm angry."

"It's not a sin to be angry, son." Father Lantom's voice sounds calm through the latticework of the confessional. I squeeze my fingers together and take a deep breath.

"I'm not angry at a person. I'm angry at God. That's a sin, right?" For several seconds, I hear nothing but breathing and stare straight ahead at the blank wall in front of me.

"Is this about your mother?" I nod quickly, then realize he can't see me.

"Yes."

"Honestly, if you're angry, I'd say you're on the right track."

"Really?"

"Matthew, you can't be angry at someone without believing in them with every fiber of your being." He doesn't usually say my name during confession.

I shift around on the uncomfortable seat. "Is that in the Bible?"

"No, it's from a book by Graham Greene. But it's true."

"What should I do?"

"Go home. Hug your father. Do your homework. And when you feel angry, tell God."

"Tell God?" I have never thought about telling God things. Of course I know that prayer is supposed to be about communicating with Him, but it hasn't ever felt like anything. Not like talking to someone I actually know.

"Tell God," Father Lantom reiterates. "He's a good listener." With that, he quickly intones the words of absolution, and I leave the confessional, rejoining my father, who was waits for me just outside the church in the bright sun of the early summer afternoon.

"You ok, Matty?" I nod. We're a taciturn pair when we're alone; my mother was always the talker. He puts his arm around me, and we walk home; it's not far. There's a casserole waiting in the fridge. Some of the church ladies still insist on bringing food over, even though it's become obvious my dad isn't interested in their company.

Dad has no fight today, so we spend it in front of the TV. He has a bottle in his lap, and I have my history book, with its binding falling apart because so many kids have used it before me. I like history. It helps me forget about all the things I wish I could change in the present. Neither of us says anything until it's almost dark outside.

Hunger is annoying, but it finally makes its presence known, and I go into the kitchen to scramble some eggs for dinner. Mom's always tasted special, with spices and butter. All I know is how to make them so you won't get food poisoning. I take out a skilled and put four slices of bread into our ancient toaster, then watch out the window as the sun sets over Hell's Kitchen. Finally, when the food is done, I go into the living room to tell Dad, but his bottle is empty, and he's asleep.

It's not the cooking that makes me angry. Or the afternoon of doing my homework alone instead of reading it aloud to my mother the way she used to like. It's not even my dad's drinking.

It's standing in the doorway of the kitchen, knowing I'm alone. Knowing that no matter how hard I wish, I can't bring her back, and I can't be to my father what she was to him. It's feeling lonely to my core.

"I hate you for taking my mom away!" my thoughts scream in my head. It's the most honest prayer I've ever prayed.

And afterward, there's no lightning to strike me down. There's no thundering voice of disapproval. No crumbling walls around me or shuddering pain to punish me for my audacity. Instead, I feel peace wrap around me like a warm blanket, soothing my agitation with contentment. I eat alone, not thinking about much of anything.

It's 9:30 when I put myself to bed, brushing my teeth and changing into the Batman pajamas my mother bought for my birthday last year. I'm settled under the covers when I hear a footfall outside my bedroom, and the door opens.

"You awake, Matty?" I'm half asleep, so I don't answer. Dad comes into my room and sits on the end of my bed, putting out a calloused hand and brushing the hair off my forehead. He's rarely affectionate when it's daytime.

The man who hardly says anything opens his mouth. "I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't been here these past couple of months." His voice is a hoarse whisper. "I love you so much. I'm not very good at saying it when you're awake, Matty, but I hope you know." I keep my eyes tightly closed, and he leans over and kisses my temple before leaving the room.

I turn over and hug my arms close to my body, repeating my father's words in my head over and over so I'll never forget them. They feel like an answer—an answer to a yelled prayer an angry little boy had no business praying. I realize, with sleepy certainty, the Father Lantom was right.

He is a good listener.


	3. Where there is hatred let me sow love

**Where there is hatred, let me sow love**

I can hear my father talking to a lawyer. I'm not supposed to be able to hear because I'm in my bedroom with the door closed. Before the accident, that would have been enough to make the voices no more than white noise.

Now, every word is as clear as if it were being spoken next to me.

"All I'm saying, Mr. Murdock, is that somebody should pay for the pain and suffering you and your son have experienced."

"Won't give Matty's eyesight back." Dad's voice sounds tired. I'm a handful these days, and I know it.

I sit back on my bed and try to tune out the rest of the conversation, even though it's impossible. My brain feels like it's cooking.

I wonder if I should be angry, angry that a truck filled with chemicals happened to converge with an old man's daily walk and that I happened to be the only one there to keep him from being killed. Am I supposed to be mad that a guy on his first job as a professional truck driver didn't know how to stop in time?

"It's ok to hate them, Matty." That's what my aunt said the night she came to see me in the hospital. The pediatrician's office sent a psychologist by. He said pretty much the same thing.

Sometimes I'm sad. Usually I'm scared. I don't know what to do because the voices keep getting louder, and the sheets get heavier, and I can smell dinner cooking three apartments over and a floor up. But I'm not mad. I don't want anybody else to suffer.

That's why, when the lawyer is gone, I pad across the carpet and into the living room. My father looks up. I can hear his bones move.

"You ok, Matty?" He puts his arm out and pulls me in close. He's more affectionate than he used to be because he thinks I can't see him. And I can't—sort of. I don't know how to explain the part of me that knows exactly how fast his heart is beating and what aftershave he used three days before. Touch is overwhelming these days, but it's good overwhelming. I like it. It makes me feel a little bit less alone.

"Dad, I don't want to sue anybody."

"You weren't supposed to hear that," he replies. I don't tell him that I can't help hearing everything. "Doesn't matter anyway. We can't afford the lawyer. Now go to bed. You've got to work on your reading tomorrow." He hugs me again, and I feel the slight unevenness of his skin through his shirt where his last fight's bruises are healing.

Until recently, I've never thought about what I actually want to do with my life. Sure, when I was little, I wanted to be a fighter like my dad, then an astronaut and a fireman. Kid stuff. It's been a while, though, since the teachers started saying I'm smart—gifted. That I can do anything I want.

I think, maybe, I want to be a lawyer. Not the kind who keep knocking on our door, trying to get us to sue. I want to be the kind of lawyer who helps people who can't afford one who deserve to be helped.

I want to help people. It's that simple and that complicated. In school, just before the accident, my teacher asked us to write about what we want to do when we grow up. Lots of kids said they wanted to own businesses, make money, get out of Hell's Kitchen.

But I want to stay. The best place to help people is the place where they need the most help.

I know I'm not Bruce Wayne or Clark Kent. I don't have a cape, and I can't even see any more. But I can remember the things I read, and I don't want anything more than I want to give my life to other people. Maybe that's stupid, but it's what I want.

Father Lantom came to see me in the hospital, a couple of days after the accident. He didn't tell me to be angry, to hate. He just sat down beside the bed and took my hand.

"Matthew," he said, "I reckon this can go one of two ways. Either you grow up bitter and angry and put out the light inside you, or you let forgiveness be a window for that light to shine through. It's up to you."

I'm not sure how to be a light, really. But I'm sure as heck going to try.


	4. Where there is injury, pardon

**Where there is injury, pardon**

My father is dead.

My one anchor to the world is asleep within it now. I could hear the sound of every spadeful of dirt that covered his coffin as he was buried. Father Lantom performed the service, and then they took me. I didn't care where. I had one bag with three shirts and a pair of jeans.

It's my fault. I know it is. The voices that won't ever be quiet are my punishment for making him do what got him killed.

"Matty?" Her soft voice breaks through the cacophony of sensory input.

"You're back," I say.

"I said I would come see you every day," she replies, and I can hear the chair legs scrape on the floor as she pulls it closer to my bed. "Do you want me to hold your hand?" I nod, and she takes it, the sleeve of her habit brushing my wrist.

There is nothing beautiful in my nun's face or figure. I get flashes of her sometimes, pinging off my out-of-control perceptions. The world would consider her dumpy, with an unremarkable face and a short, flabby figure. She is the most beautiful woman in the world to me. All the Sisters are kind, but she's the only one who spends her scanty free time sitting beside me and offering comfort.

"I've been praying for you," she says, "and I know it's going to get better." She sounds so certain.

"N-no," I say, shaking my head. "It keeps getting worse." It's true; I can hardly sleep any more because of all the voices crying in the night.

"Sometimes it gets worse just before it gets better," says Sister Katherine.

"I don't want it to get better," I say, in a barely audible whisper.

"Why is that, sweetheart?" She puts her hand on my cheek, and it's cool and soft against my skin.

"I made my dad fight, the night he died," I answer. It's the first time I've said it out loud to anyone.

She sighs. "I'm not going to waste time trying to convince you it's not your fault. I know how it is. My mother died in a car accident when I was a teenager. I was in the car, and I lived. I know it's irrational, but I've never been able to stop blaming myself for living when she didn't. It gets easier, but it doesn't go away."

I turn toward her. "How do you stand it?"

She clears her throat and speaks again, sounding more confident than usual. "Because, Matty, we lived for a reason. I wouldn't be a nun if I thought everything happened by chance. You and I still have life because we're meant to do something with it."

"That's - -," I say, betraying the anger I feel. "There's no reason for me to be here."

She leans over and kisses my forehead, an act of grace in a moment when I feel least deserving. "I don't know your purpose, but I do know you have one, and I believe you're going to find it."

She gets up, the folds of her long robe caressing the floor. "I have to go, but I brought you something." She hands me a rosary, putting it into my hands and closing my fingers around the beads. "When you don't know what to do, hold onto this, and remember He hasn't left you." With that, she's gone, swishing down the hallway toward the kitchen, where she spends most of her days washing the mission's dishes.

I lie there, holding my head, for another hour, before two of the other nuns bring a man to my bedside. His voice is old, and he says to call him Stick. He buys me ice cream but gives me hope for free.


	5. Where there is doubt, faith

**Where there is doubt, faith**

My knuckles are bloody. I breathe fast and hard. Stick gives me a few seconds to catch my breath, my back against the cold floor where he's thrown me again. I smile up at him. I lasted longer this time, longer than I ever have before when we sparred.

Where I used to be only jutting bones, muscles are now making themselves known, lumps on my arms and thick stability around my middle. He says I have the body for it. Anyone can learn, but I am suited to it. I guess it makes sense; my dad was a fighter.

We finish the day in meditation, and I center my mind on Sister Katherine's Rosary. She would say that it makes sense, that if I'm gifted with my senses, I would have a body that can use them. I'm not so sure it's a gift. Stick's way is fierce and hard. Sometimes I want to be him; sometimes I just want to disappear.

I wasn't a clingy child. When my father was alive, before the accident, it was usually enough for me to see him, to know he was there. But now it's different. Now the fast-fleeting memories of goodnight kisses and quick hugs are like knives that pierce with sweetness and pain. Stick never touches me except when we fight. I wish he would put his arms around me, just once, and let me feel held again.

"Good night, Matthew." He drops me off at the mission, like always, and I curl up on the thin, uncomfortable mattress. I can sleep now. I am learning to force myself not to listen to the voices I can't silence. There's a way out of the madness. I have not yet reached it, but I can see it.

I wake up early; I have a task to complete. I don't own much, but I take the wrapper from the first ice cream Stick ever bought me, and I begin to form it with my fingers. I've always been good at making things, almost as good as I am at learning things. I do each fold with razor-like precision. I want him to know I made an effort. When I'm finished, I tuck the bracelet into my pocket. It's a small thing, I know, but it's a symbol of how grateful I am, how much I want him to stay. I do not know that wanting him is exactly what will drive him away.

He tells me I'm a disappointment. I agree with him. I had hoped, for a short time, that maybe I wouldn't mess something up, that maybe I could be good enough for him. I should have known I'm not. I should have realized I'll always be alone. He crumples my hard work in one of his iron fists.

When he's gone, I walk back to the mission alone. I can do that now. I'm no longer afraid to be out in the world by myself. It's earlier than I'm supposed to be back, so I go to my room and go back to bed, burying my face in my ragged pillow, but I can't block out the pain. I have learned to make myself ignore the constant onslaught of sensory data around me, but I can't ignore the searing agony of rejection from the one person who understands what's it's like to be me.

"Matty! Matty!" The heavily accented voice belongs to Margareta, the six-year-old girl who is the mission's newest inhabitant. She's crying. I can hear it in her voice and breathing and smell the salt before she reaches my room.

"Are you ok?" I ask. I focus to ascertain if there's anything wrong with her physically, but all I detect is her usual brunette braid and olive skin.

"The others—they say I don't talk good," she says, between sobs. She speaks Spanish, but her English is minimal. The other kids don't like people who look and sound different.

I don't really know what to do, but I can't do nothing. The nuns are too busy to worry about problems with us unless they involve physical danger, so we're pretty much on our own. "Come here," I say, sitting up on my bed with my back against the wall. She walks over, gulping air and wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands.

In an instant, my own pain is temporarily forgotten as I lift her into my lap. As if by instinct, she wraps her arms around my neck and leans against me, her breathing slowly leveling out as I hold her and rub her back. I have no idea if what I am doing is right. I had no sisters. But she stops crying, and I hear her heartbeat slow to normal.

"I love you, Matty," she says after a while, one of the few English phrases she knows. Her face breaks into a smile, and she lets me hold her a moment longer before hopping down and running off again.

I realize, as I listen to her footfall die away, that my own breathing has steadied, my own heartbeat thumps at a normal pace, and the agonizing pain inside me has to share space with a feeling of warm contentment.

People sometimes have hierarchies of love. They value the adoration of someone rich or beautiful or powerful as they value a treasure, but the love of a poor, dirt-streaked little girl would mean nothing at all. I've never really understood that. When someone loves you, anyone, it's the best thing of all. Sometimes, it's the one thing that keeps you alive inside.


	6. Where there is despair, hope

**Where there is despair, hope**

"Come in, Matthew." Sister Genevieve looks up and smiles when she sees me, even though she doesn't realize I can tell. She always smiles when she looks at me, even though she barely smiles any other time. I guess I wouldn't smile either if I were in charge of a bunch of kids and hardly had enough money to keep the building from collapsing. Sister Genevieve is old and wrinkled and known for her short temper. But I know the truth. I hear all the nights she walks the halls and goes into the rooms of the children who can't sleep, holding the small ones close and talking to the older ones when they have bad dreams. We all love her, but it's our secret. The world cannot know of her kind heart, or it will try to cheat her even more than it already does.

"I've called you in to talk about your test scores."

"Oh," I breathe deeply and sit down in the chair in front of her desk, taking care to act like I don't know where it is without feeling for it. I'm a little scared. It's been two months since I took my SATs, and I haven't heard anything. They say that's normal, but I've lain awake a lot of nights thinking about all the answers I know I missed, about how the mission has no money for me to take the test again, that I may never get into college because of one single day.

"You did extremely well, far better than—what I mean is, your grades have always been very good, but we had no idea what you were truly capable of. You scored in the top five percent in the nation, Matthew. Several colleges have offered you full scholarships, and the Diocese Foundation is going to take care of your living expenses. It will be up to you what course of study you pursue."

My eyes tear up behind my dark glasses. The sister smiles again and puts out a calloused hand, interlacing her tiny fingers with my much larger ones. "Your father would be very proud of you."

Later that afternoon, I carefully put on my most presentable shirt and khaki pants and make my way outside the mission and toward the church I used to attend every week. Father Lantom sometimes visits the mission, but I haven't seen him in several months.

"Good afternoon, Matthew." He's sitting outside on the church's front steps.

"Father," I say, using my cane as if I need it and taking my place beside him. "I came to tell you I'm going to college. Not for a few months, but I wasn't sure if I'd see you." I set my cane down and rest my elbows on my knees under the warm summer sun.

"You want to confess anything?" He cuts to the chase. Most confessions take place in a box, separated by a wall, but I know him well, and he knows me better.

"Sometimes I think I'm all alone in the world," I answer, "and then I find out something like the fact that they're sending me to school, that I can be anything I want. And I see the pattern again."

Father Lantom reaches out a hand and rubs the back of my neck for a few seconds, exactly where the tension always sits. "When your father was alive, were you happy?"

"Sure," I answer quickly.

"Why? Was everything perfect?" I see what he's getting at, but I don't apprehend his point.

"No." I shake my head. "Mom died, and then my accident happened. And—my dad drank. You know that."

"But you still found happiness. Why is that?"

"I guess because I liked being around him. Even the bad stuff was ok if he was there."

"Exactly," says the collared man beside me, smiling to himself. "He made the bad things bearable just by being there. That's what faith in God is like, Matt. Sometimes we get to see the good things, the easy things, the graces we don't deserve. Those are like giant neon signs to remind us that there's a plan. But true faith is more than that. It's knowing He's there in the hard times, the times when we feel alone—and trusting that He makes those times worth it, too."

I nod. "I'll—try." I mean it. I can't lie to him.

"What I want you to do, Matthew, is pick a time. Just one time, when you're feeling alone, and I want you to remember He's there, on purpose, just like if your dad suddenly walked in and made things better. Doesn't have to take long, just a couple of seconds. See what happens."

I'm used to Father Lantom's unusual ideas about penance, so I nod again, and he absolves me, sitting on church steps on a Saturday afternoon. As he's praying, I think about how much I'll miss him when I've gone.

It turns out, I forget about the penance I've been assigned in the flurry of my preparation for school. Or maybe I want to forget. I'm not sure how I feel about a God who's in charge of the world whose cries fill my ears in the nighttime. I don't know if I even want to remember His presence in the bad times.

I finally do as I'm told nearly four years later, when I'm about to enter a new dorm room at Columbia Law. There are few things that scare me all that much any more, but this does. During undergrad, I lived alone in my own apartment. No one had to deal with being the roommate of the blind, disabled orphan with a dirt-poor past. For the first time, I have a roommate, and I'm nervous.

Just before I push open the door, I feel the profound aloneness choke me inside, and I breathe a prayer. "Please be there." I don't know if it's any good after four years, but I give it a try.

I step inside, and that's when I meet Foggy Nelson. As soon as I see his face, I know. God isn't just an idea. Sometimes he's a friend with long hair and a ratty t-shirt who's right where you need him.

* * *

 **A/N: It's great to be a professional writer, but that means that sometimes, when you're writing for a job, it cuts into the writing you really want to be doing. Sorry this took so long. Hope you enjoy.**


	7. Where there is darkness, light

**Where there is darkness, light**

Law school is the easy part. The hard part is lying awake, night after night, hearing the sounds of a city in agony. Most of the time, I try to shut out the individual voices, to force myself to hear them as a choral cacophony of pain so my heart can't be broken.

But I can't ignore them.

I never could, not even before the accident. As a small boy, I brought home mewling cats and dying birds, dogs with gashes in their sides and bite marks. My mother was scared I would catch something dangerous, but when it came down to it, she always did her best to make them comfortable.

When I got older, after everything changed, I volunteered, so much that my college advisor called me in for a meeting when I was about to graduate. "Matthew," she said, "have you thought about pursuing social work instead of law? You're so good with the children at the community center."

I shook my head. "Ma'am, I want to use the law to help people." I didn't tell her that the reason I was so good at understanding the children's needs was that I could smell their unshed tears and hear their panicked heartbeats and understand every conversation they whispered to each other when they thought no adult was listening.

So I came to law school, and I try to focus on my studies, but every night, the cries of a new neighborhood fill my mind with the unspeakable pain of thousands. "It's so dark," I say to myself, "and I can't see the light." The words in my head remind me of something from a long time ago, when I was small.

One day, when my mother was praying, I'd crawled into her lap. "Mama," I asked, "why are you praying?"

"Because Jesus is everywhere," she answered.

"But you can't see him," I replied. "What if you need Him to do something?"

My mother took my face in her hands and looked into my eyes. "Matthew, who cooks your breakfast?"

"You do?" I was confused.

Mama nodded. "That's right. You don't see Jesus. You see me. That's how it works, sweetheart. When we can't see Jesus in the world, we're meant to be Him." I didn't really understand what she meant, but I liked the way she said it, so I settled down into her embrace.

I let myself relive the memory for a moment, focusing on what I can recall of the feeling of being in my mother's arms. Then her words repeat in my head. "When we can't see Jesus in the world, we're meant to be Him."

Around me there is darkness and pain and agony that no one but me can hear. A single cry pierces my mind, the wail of a little girl, violated in unspeakable ways. I get out of bed and dress quietly, tying a bandana around my face to cover all but my eyes.

I run toward the sound. I get out of breath, but I don't care. I'm scared the girl's voice will go silent, and I'll no longer be able to find her. I force myself to tune out all other sounds and smells and impressions and to center my brain, just on her. As I get closer, I can hear not only her weeping, but also her hitched breathing.

Finally, I reach a ramshackle apartment building with a leaking roof and the acrid scent of mold. The girl is on the first floor, and I climb in through her half-broken window. She screams when she sees me, and her father comes running.

Her father. Her tormentor and violator and the monster more real than any she could imagine. "I know what you do to her," I hiss in a low voice, taking advantage of his moment of paralyzed surprise. "If you ever touch her again, I will know, and I'll kill you. Believe me, I'll kill you." He turns and runs, like the coward he is.

I turn to the cowering little girl on the bed. She's crying silently, a look of horror on her pale face. "Don't be afraid," I say, coming closer. The idea that I've scared her turns my stomach. "Nobody's going to hurt you any more. I meant what I said. I won't let them."

She turns big, old, sad eyes on me. "Are you my guardian angel?"

I pull the bandanna off and let her see my face, sitting down on the end of her tiny bed. "No,' I say, shaking my head, "I'm just a guy who wants to help."

She reaches out a hand and touches my face. "I don't believe you. You were watching over me, just like an angel."

I can't explain, so I pick up the tattered, dirty teddy bear from the floor beside her bed and hand it to her. "Sleep," I say. "You're safe now."

Obediently, she takes the bear and closes her eyes. I slip away quietly, but I hide in the bushes until her father returns two hours later and peers cautiously into the window to make sure the specter of vengeance is gone. I wait, listening to his movements around the house. He doesn't visit his daughter's room again.

The next night, I lie awake to make sure the little girl is still safe. I could have killed the monster. I was angry enough. But I'm glad I didn't. I don't want to be a killer.

The little girl doesn't cry any more, but I hear thousands of others—women being beaten, teenagers on the street weeping from hunger, a man being mugged. I get up again and and dress. I can't wait any longer. Every cry represents a person now, a soul like the little girl with the sad eyes.

I go outside and focus my mind, trying to figure out the most urgent source of pain I can hear. I cannot fix everything, and I am no angel. But I am the son of a mother who once told me that when we can/t see Jesus, that means we're meant to be Him in the world. It's a tough assignment, and I don't think I'm very good at it, but I have to try.


	8. And where there is sadness, joy

**And where there is sadness, joy**

I knock out the first mugger a block from my apartment. He's a skinny kid, and I really just want to scare him into running away, but he won't stop coming at me, so I give him a hard punch that sends him out long enough for me to go on my way. I can't even give back the purse he was trying to steal. The victim runs away during the fight, as scared of me as she is of him. Hopefully he'll be terrified enough not to try again with someone else. I don't enjoy that one. It's just a duty.

The second mugger is only three blocks further, but I'm not surprised. It's one of those hot, oppressive Hell's Kitchen nights, when the streets feel restless, and tempers are high. This time, the perp is a tall, muscular man with a gun, who's pointing it in the face of a boy who can't be more than a teenager. I surprise him from behind, and I throw the kid's wallet back to him before he dashes off as fast as he can. This time, the fight is closer to even, and it's a good five minutes before I get the upper hand. The guy's a nasty fighter, a sadistic brute, who goes for the eyes and uses his fingernails and his teeth. I enjoy hitting him, over and over. Not enough to kill him, by any means, but I want to incapacitate him to at least temporarily halt his career. He's not one to be intimidated into stopping. My fist feels good, doing it's punishing work. I shouldn't like it, but I do.

The third mugger is across five blocks, and he's high. He's not strong, but he's unpredictable, and his college-age female victim is having a panic attack while he points his knife at her. I kick the knife out of his had, but then he runs toward the fear-paralyzed girl, so I have to stop him as quickly and efficiently as I can. That results in him unconscious on the sidewalk, and the girl starts crying, so I stay with her until she's composed enough to get into a taxi bound for home.

The fourth mugger is the furthest from my home, almost outside the neighborhood. It's a woman this time, which is less common, but certainly not unheard of. She has a gun pressed to the temple of an elderly lady who looks scared but is standing her ground. I get the gun, but the girl won't give up. I don't really like hitting women; it's one of those things that's been drummed into me since childhood, but she's extremely strong, and she's so angry she wants to kill me. Finally, I leave her unconscious at my feet and hand the purse she tried to steal back to the victim, who's been standing to the side and watching the whole time.

"Bless you," she says, choked up. "I have a picture of my granddaughter in here. It's—the only one I have. She passed away in an accident. I would have been heartbroken to lose it." It's a simple thing compared to a city filled with crime, but she hugs me tightly, and she smiles.

Four muggings, four in one night. I make my way home, my energy drained from the fights, but satisfied with what I've accomplished. It's a dark satisfaction, like it is every night. Except this time, there's another feeling alongside it.

My work is not a happy vocation; it brings little real joy to others or to myself, even though I know it's necessary. But for one single moment this night, I made an old lady smile. It feels good in a different way, a hopeful way.


End file.
